We meet at the gate to go back to her house, the culmination of our friendship so far.
Hand in hand walking through the wide streets under the quiet blue sky.
Amsterdam-ish houses line the road, taller than they are fat, but separate, instead of leaning on each other. Vacant spaces between them, like in The Simpsons’ neighbourhood. I peer through each and see slithered hedges, fruit-bearing canopies, the top of a plaid hat behind a newspaper.
Piano arrives through the breeze and my stomach tightens as I try to guess which is hers. “You’re such a loser”, she stings through grey bubble gum, noticing my fat pilly socks. They fall despondently over my trainers.
Her place is faded lemon stucco. The front area stands out from the rest, covered with terracotta pot plants and statues. A green bird lands on a decapitated angel figure filled with rainwater, algae slimed over its jagged neck.
Pushing through the heavy front door we’re engulfed in coolness. Stone walls and marble pink floors. Narrow inside with a clear glass ceiling, designed considerately. I feel my freckled arms drowned in lukewarm light, sunbeams dance with dead-life debris going slowly down to the ground.
She’s arranged for others to come over too.
Three girls sitting at a bench towards the back, each forking a piece of rainbow cake. Multi-coloured crumbs decorate their unsmiling, glistening mouths. Zsófia has left through the big sliding door while I’ve been distracted by everything in her house. I picture her with it all. On it all.
